Unperceived DepthsThere is a bright and shining hope. The water shimmers and engulfs the view as glossy red metal subs plunge into the green depths. The mossy things under the waves, shrieking horrors despite the silence of the crushing darkness. Insanity lays siege to the lights. Duty calls every man to sit as the world slips away.
The surface will not miss them but they will long for the time they can leave the pressurized chambers. They feel it behind the walls. The crew know it is there even if they don’t look. If they study their screens hard enough, read every syllable of their books, dot every “i” on their formal paperwork; They still know the insanity that lurks just outside. They see it through their closed eyes. The insanity waits outside peering through the hull with their gouged sockets. The feel the men. They taste their fear and bite away at their control.
The things outside are little more than ghosts and much more. Few have hands left. What fingers were left were sacrif
The day, the nightThe day, the night, the standing light in the standing time between the day and the rhyme. No one suspects the ever living, ticking betraying stance of themselves. No one counters their own rebellions as the wage on in the soul and the sound of the hallowed ground. there aren't as many police as they think. the safety they imagine is just that because no one can save us from ourselves. Where the cattle and goats feed of the land, we consume our souls. We forsake what we hold dear because nothing else quite feels like it is worth the time to defile. there is an epidemic in my mind that reeks the whole mind and seeks to destroy the images of a boy and taint the stance of a man.
The girls with their pearls all rolling in the light shimmer in the glimmer of destruction’s light. Those that detect and collect respect that there are no boundaries for where the dollar has power.
Lies stack up and we experience truth through fictions. The only truth is true with the imagination. Relevant
Over IndulgentThere was a time for us. I haven't written about you in a while. There was a time when I wrote about you every day. I missed you. Now, I just want someone to hug. You don't hug me. You haven't hugged me in a long time.
There was a time when you hated people. You hated them for me and for my honor. You said that they disrespected me and you didn't like them for it. I was proud and happy and content with you and you alone. I was happy to have someone so devoted to me. Someone to ring my cause before I knew I had one.
I still have people that ring my cause. People that stand up for me and hate on my behalf. It is different now because they hate you. They hate you for what you did to me. For what you said. For the year of grieving that you did not deserve. They hate you and you will never be welcomed back to my cause. I vetoed your exile. I tried to leave the door open for your return. They came back with a super majority. The override came swiftly. You don't want back and they don't want
Just because it is a cycle, doesn't mean it is allThe idea of quitting is nothing new. You let the words bounce around your head and then you let them spew. In private, alone. In the alley behind your home. you drain your throat of everything in your head and hope it leave you alone. but it breaks down into the soil and gets swept back up into the drains. and washing out into the oceans where liquid has few names. Until it is hoisted up into the sky and fluffs out into clouds that methodically pass you by. The ideas went back inside you and come down as rain but you stay indoors dry and insane.
The HikerThe snow fell in sweet silence on the serien meadow. The thin trees stood inches apart from each other filling the expanse. There is blood pooling in my sock. I don't know what to do with it. The others knew first aid. They were headed nowhere, though. This is the right direction. I know it. These surroundings are completely new. I am bound to hit land soon. I can take care of my foot then.
Oh. Apparently my shoe has soaked through. There are red footprints leading up to me. Life is funny sometimes. It is kind of hard to breath. I think I will sit down, take some nice deep breaths.
that is funny. My tan seems to be gone. I guess this will just let me get tanner. The guys at the office will be impressed. The office seems like a completely different reality from this place. Everything is calm. Nothing cares for what time it is. Things happen and succeed without demanding everyone's attention. Why do I feel like everything is looking at me?
I kind of get the appeal of nature, t
Our Dead SelvesTo all of our dead selves. they lie there. damaged, dismembered, dead. Every lifeless husk in various stages of rot and or preservation. The glassed over charred one, still hanging off the chimney. I don't even remember which of the husks was me. They don't stab. It is oddly suspicious but I stopped asking questions long ago. We ran out of bullets after a few months. The early corpses are further away. Back then we were disturbed by the contradiction of our dead selves being burried by our living bodies. We use to go so far out that we lost a few bodies. Hell, we lost a lot of bodies.
We use to bury ourselves, too. Use to call ourselves "them" and "it." We use to fight about what exactly the corpses should be called. We agreed to disagree a few times but that didn't last. We would try to trek out to our graveyard in silence but we would get to talking and directing and then the shovels would be dropped as we both pulled swords. The swords lasted longer than the ammunition but those sho
Sitting Quietly in Pale WhiteSitting quietly in a pale white breakroom. You can tell a break room because it looks desperately and thoroughly used for fifteen minute increments several times a day and lacks any real distinction of style outside of borrowed furniture, lockers of questionable safety, and vending machines. It makes an obscene amount of sense that one soda company would be contracted to sell in the store but another would own the machine in the breakroom. The steadiest most desperate patrons would be employees. The illusion of choice in lieu of laziness. It is always easier and cheaper to bring refreshments but that is if planning was easy.
He sits there in the breakroom holding a red leather journal. Fountain pen floating centimeters over the page with the constant threat of leaving ink in strategic places that convey meaning to discerning onlookers. He stares at the pop machine and thinks about the illusion of choice and the its threat to free will. The clock is broken and the second hand twitches u
Heart Pounding my Brain
Today is the day. I cannot think about it, too long. Otherwise, I get sick to my stomach. I am going to ask out the obscenely cute girl, from work. Ambiguously single with at several male friends but she is proprietary single, none the less. I'm still unsure, though.
I have come up with a plan. I will get her attention.I won't bring up any other bullshit to talk about, straight to the point. I will ask if she is seeing anyone and I will request that we go out sometime. When do I take her out?
She has told me she is busy. Quite the busy girl, all the time. I am available late or early, whenever. I don't know when we both will be available. I could take her out at work. No, that would be unpleasant, embarrassing, and not at all romantic. Should I really be planing dates right now? That would look weird, right? If I go from being unaware of her relationship status to throwing times and places at her. I can only see that ending in dodge ball, I want to avoid that metaphor.
So, setting up a
The Beautiful ClownsThere is another one. Tall blond, shutter-shade sunglasses, pink novelty tee, and jeans that show me too much ass. We are trying to march down this boulevard to make a scene. Me and my gang, we aren't funny and are not here to chase tail, even if we did find it mildly attractive. Pocka-dots and an ironic sense of humor. When the clowns roll walk into where you live, you will find that you were on our turf all along.
This was a long time coming. We should have just taken what was ours. We had a girl selling on a street corner. Snow, not ass, we don't sell ass. We give stupid people stuff that keeps them stupid and there is no woman who deserves to be some banker's sweet escape. I find that women fight just as well as men, if they are treated like they can. Mother's fight better, pain tolerance and a constant angry stare.
Take Bridge, she was fourteen when we found her. Skinny as wire on a fence and high on crack. I don't give wasts of girls like that a second look but not Bridge. Even o
"It's storming in Chicago," calls the mother to her son,
who already knows—he can see the thunderhead,
black and towering, gliding above the corn fields.
It's miles away now, in Illinois, but his Hoosier blood
stirs with the approach of another Midwestern storm.
While she reflexively checks the radio
for tornado warnings, he runs between the cornstalks,
feeling the first teasing breezes on the outskirts
of the front. The field is empty otherwise; the cardinals
have already found shelter, as have the pasture deer.
She calls to him, but knows he is safe for now,
and remembers what it was like to run through corn fields,
letting the leaves slap against tanned arms and legs,
tasting the ozone tang of the distant lightning
and hearing, just barely, the tolling thunder.
He thinks of glaciers he's seen in schoolbooks:
slow, inexorable (though he does not know that word),
and wonders if a glacier announces its coming, too,
the way the storm air weighs down an afternoon.
A Walk With My FatherCome child, I want to show you the moon shinning through a thin veil of clouds.
The stars that seem just out of reach, reflected in the silver lake.
Now close your eyes- be still a moment...
Feel the warm breeze touch your skin and hair.
Listen as it rustles the leaves of Aspen trees.
Breath in the perfume of dying leaves.
Walk with my in the twilight tonight.
And I will fill your soul with light.
All Our FaultWe swallowed fireflies,
watched them become
red esophagus lights
on the way down.
We pulled off wings of fairies
and cut them into tiny
We blew up
the stars, the moon
and then, and then
There was no longer
enough light to guide us
in the night.
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,
this, our neighborhood of galaxies,
in which only a single star
is even remotely reachable.
And we tell ourselves
to dream big.
That hard work
will get us there.
But on the cosmic scale
our collective capacity
For every star in the Milky Way,
all four hundred billion or more,
there is a galaxy.
Even the Local Group
Yet since dreams are orbital
we hold our breath to reach them.
And when we perish in the vacuum
the stars still burn
everything that matters.
CernunnosHear the wind blowing
Through the trees
You wander in the woods
Wondering what's there
The sound of a branch
Breaking fills the air
You feel the hair on your
Neck stand as you turn
Someone was there, but
No one stands there now
You turn to the side
And see a shadowed figure
Divided Equinoxeslike two lovers swaying in eternal ellipses,
or warriors circling in ever-evasive orbits:
at times in perihelion, at times aphelion;
yet never closer or further; locked
in a celestial stalemate of divided equinoxes,
more a dance than a war -
each had their own time and the summer was his,
temper turning at the solstice, quick to flare
in sudden blazes or midnight storms as unpredictable
as June tempests, and floods that erased all memories
from the preceding months, while each hour grew
steadily colder, emptier -
until one season's radiance was eclipsed
by the other's lengthening shadow;
and in the dimming light of autumn he would
polish his gilt-bronze armour and reap the year's harvest
before the siege ahead, for battles were won or lost
on her glacial domain -
with ice-tipped arrows and blades of stalactite
against which the invading sun, resplendent
even in deep winter, advanced upon the ice queen,
seeking beneath the marble-veined surface
of proud alabaster to find a heart in hibe
Theme Prompt - WavesWhite-frothed waves crash up on the shore,
Coming closer and closer with each burst.
The edges touch my toes and suddenly change,
Horses heads gesturing for me to follow.
The myths are true! The waves are horses!
I follow the last wave eagerly, the one
That had reached out and touched me.
Once submerged, I mount a snowy white horse
And we're off, faster than I can believe.
The herd runs faster than the wind above.
We dash over the sandy ocean floor,
Wrecks loom up like ghosts and fade
While colorful fish swim just overhead.
Such stark beauty, such amazing life
Hidden away here in the blue depths!
Crystal MorningsThe sun shines down upon
A sparkling, crystalline dawn,
A morning unlike any other
Where the snow seems to hover
Floating like stars in the daytime sky.
They are a mystical white,
Crystals beautiful to enlightened sight,
Dazzling in their winter susurration,
Their deep downy touch an indication
Of the winter melody forever in my mind.
Lively melodies seem to float upon the air,
Its tone so vibrant, so fair, so fair
Ineffable in its cold winter perfection,
It heralds the year's resurrection
Felicity for the miraculous, a brightened day,
Its insurrection of my attempts to say,
Express the beauty which sweeps me away.
Oh, the beauty of this crystal morning,
To you, I am most sincerely imploring,
Imbibe the light, the clarity of this vision;
I shall suffer from you no indecision,
For under a miracle like this morning,
Surely, dreams come true.
The Summer FarceThe gentle season's banner,
A herald to the fall,
So full of calming glamour,
To entertain us all.
The colors become stark,
Against the light of day,
The yellow and red grow dark,
In heaps of clouds grown gray.
I wake up in the morning
To see that it has come,
Feet cold against the flooring,
I break into a run.
There is beauty just outside,
Not beyond my reach,
To us does autumn confide,
It has many things to teach.
We learn of love and beauty,
As birdsong becomes sparse,
And 'tis my righteous duty
To end the summer farce.
Snow FallThe perfect snow drifts perilously to the earth. It twirls in the wind. Twisting in the air as the heat pushes past. the wind is always pouring from among high in an effort to find balance. The only result is turbulence. Breath of desperate pleas beat flakes and trees alike as the fall continues. Landing is most dreadful. There is no control for the frozen patterns. No means of reason to attempt to succeed. Cars blaring horns blaze on the ground. It gets close and the wind meets it and bends to the curvature of the hood. Flakes are tossed on a wave of movement. Unseeing and caring. Some lose their majestic form as they lie in puddles. They land softly, always softly. A perk of design and kindness. It hovers for a moment. The tension passes as the blanket of comfort fades away. Laying in water, dirt is pulled up over the crystals. It is warm now. Strange. It dissipates as a teardrop and mixes with that which fell before. Next time, a field perhaps.